The Story of Morning and Evening
by PuffinofPie
Summary: Castiel's story revolves around local coffeehouse. He is happy there watching the days pass, listening to the stories and lives of customers. Until his becomes hopelessly entangled with another, that is.
1. Le Trublion

**_A/N: _**_Oh, hey, so this is kind of a short chapter. That's okay, though, because they'll get longer. Promise._

_So this idea kind of hit me while listening to a song, and that's where I got the title for the story; it's the English translation of it. So yeah._

_Also, the title of the chapter is the title of yet another song, one that I think fits the guest star of this chapter pretty well.  
_

_Read and review, please? I love critiques, and I'd also like to hear if the present tense is working. If not, I can switch it to the ever popular past tense. So yeah, feedback would be lovely~! It'll be you helping me help make the story better!  
_

_I think that's it?_

_Until next time!_

_**Disclaimer: **I own nothing used here save my computer.__  
_

_**Chapter 1: Le Trublion**  
_

Stories are like balls of yarn; each person stands in a circle, each possessing his or her own ball. Then, as the teacher counts down, everyone tosses their yarn to others in the circle. The strings mountain and valley around one another, some even looping. The teacher counts down. "Ten, nine, eight!" he says, and he watches amusedly as a student misses a ball and is forced to retrieve it. Inadvertently, he tangles his own yarn in the missed ball; he also nearly trips over it. "Seven, six, five!" A student utters some cuss words loudly, his yarn becoming hopelessly tangled with that of a girl's across the circle. "Four, three, two!" The students rush to possess their balls of yarn before the teacher tells them to stop, as the rules so clearly state. "One!" There are students with their shoulders slumped, they had failed to retrieve theirs before time ran out. Others, however, are following the trail of their yarn, scrutinizing each tangle, each not, and every intersection.

Stories cross one another constantly whether it's with the person with that guitar case you bump into on your way to work, or that barista with those brilliant sapphire eyes you ordered your vanilla latte from five minutes prior. Sometimes stories become tangled together, impossible to separate, like those of your family members' or significant other's. And sometimes people lose their stories, much like the students frantically trying to grasp theirs before the end of the activity; those are those who have lost sight of their dreams and aspirations, or those who simply don't know what they wish for.

This? This is the story of the young man who was too hesitant of letting his ball of yarn go, of letting it free mingle with the other stories. He didn't want to lose his story, to be disappointed, but in trying to keep it close, he ended up forgetting to live it. He was fascinated with other people's stories, and wished for his own, but his fear left him incapacitated.

Instead of going out to live and enrich his story, letting his merrily tangle with others, he settled for watching others roll by. And if you ask him, he would say that he was content albeit wistful; yet he would also say that he was waiting for his story to be yanked from his overprotective fingers and thrust into the many others, eventually interweaving itself in a nice little niche. He would say that he wanted his story to truly begin.

_XXXXX_

The order is a white hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. As Castiel would describe it, it's the drink of inevitable diabetes and subsequent death. Yet he bustles behind the counter, pouring the appropriate sugar-laced ingredients in the cup to satisfy yet another customer. The said man is watching his back impatiently, hazel eyes antsy. It isn't an "I need to be somewhere now" sort of antsy. It is, rather, a "give me that wonderful, sugar-filled drink now so I can slurp it all up, scald my poor throat and more than likely demand another". So Castiel hurries to finish the hot chocolate faster, and when he finally does turn around with the finished beverage, the customer takes it gratefully and sips; he doesn't move.

"This is good," he comments loudly, taking another small amount of the surely painfully hot white hot chocolate. He adjusts himself to a more comfortable and leisurely stance, his legs crossing and his hips leaning up against the counter. His eyes rest once again on the barista, who judges his age to be early thirties. Castiel is silently thankful that it is the quiet period of the day and that there is no line.

"Thank you," Castiel replies, slightly awkwardly. He's never been sure how to respond to statements just as those; it isn't his recipe, and it's fairly simple. So he decides on that simple, neutral response and then stands there. The other man sips again happily at the furiously steaming drink.

"This seems like a cozy job," the customer observes after a moment of relatively awkward silence, his head nodding as he notes various elements of the coffee house: few tables in the far corner, several comfortable chairs are scattered throughout the small store, and the walls are painted earthy greens and browns. Plants hang from the ceiling, and the wall facing the street has been long replaced by windows. All in all, it is a welcoming atmosphere, and Castiel would be foolish not to admit that it almost always calms his ever-frazzled nerved.

"It is," the barista replies dumbly, then quickly continues to add, "It isn't very exciting, but it's rather nice." He hopes desperately that suffices as an answer; it isn't very elaborate, but it's truthful. A couple huddled around one of the tables gives a rather loud pair of laughs, and then resumes hushed whispers to one another. The one on the right, a woman likely in her mid-twenties, is leaning over the table. He isn't able to see her face, but he assumes she has a happy expression with twinkling eyes. You know, like the one that the love struck girl has in those cliché romantic comedies. Her partner, a male appearing not much older than she, has short cropped hair and Castiel's guessing brown eyes; he seems like a brown eyed sort of man. Whatever the case, the two seem to be having quite a good conversation.

The customer nods in understanding, and then he smiled widely. "I'm a street artist," he says almost boastingly, drawing Castiel's attention back. "Controversial, too, and that's the way to do it!"

Castiel cocks his head. "Controversial?" he inquires, now obviously intrigued. Controversial could mean an array of things. Is he picking a questionable subject? Is he an advocate? Is his approach new and unusual, perhaps even illegal?

Turns out it is the former two. "I've discovered that the best way to get your message across is through the shock," his customer says with a nonchalant shrug. "Look for anything signed Gabriel. That's artist me!"'

"Gabriel," Castiel repeats, committing the name to memory. Then he realizes that he doesn't know where to start looking. So he asks. "Where can I find your artwork?"

"Around," Gabriel replies cryptically, not wishing to reveal anything more. Castiel detects that much, but he still wishes to know. He doesn't press, though. "You know, you would make a great listener. You're very quiet, but you hear every word I'm saying." The statement is an aloud thought, and it sounds so in every aspect.

Still, Castiel flushes slightly at the compliment. He nearly throws his hands to his face to cool his cheeks and hide his embarrassment, which doesn't help because they retained the heat from the hot chocolate.

"Kid, kid!" Gabriel says in panic, righting himself from his slouch and nearly flinging himself over the counter. His hazel eyes peer inquisitively and worriedly at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry! I'm fine! I'm sorry!" Castiel replies quickly, dropping his hands to his side. His flush still remains, albeit with more rouge dusted along his cheeks. "I just – thank you."

Gabriel stares at him for a moment, dragging himself back over the counter. "Okay," he says, although he doesn't sound convinced. Castiel lets it slide, though, as he preoccupies himself with wiping his hands on the supplied rag. They are sticky, after all.

"Hey, kid. Listen close," Gabriel demands after a moment of hesitation. Castiel raises his blues eyes curiously from his hands and cocks his head. The street artist leans over the counter conspiratorily. "Get out there, kid. Whatever you should be doing, wherever you should be, it isn't here."

Castiel parts his lips to respond, but Gabriel promptly cuts him off. "You know, I think I'd like a cherry strudel," he thinks aloud yet again and taps on the glass of the display case. "Could I get one?"

Castiel merely nods, wishing to ask what he meant, but his customer seems to not wish to elaborate. He slides the back door to the case open and pulls one of the mentioned pastries out. It goes promptly into a brown paper bag emblazoned with the store's logo, and he begins folding the top closed. He decides to begin again, to ask the question that's insisting on being asked, but his voice is lost under that of a certain customer's.

"No! Wait!" Gabriel cries dramatically, stretching his arm forward to stop the poor, startled barista. He then enunciates meticulously and slowly an, "Add a blueberry one, too."

Again, Castiel only nods, reaching into the case with his napkin filled hand to search for the man's second desired pastry. When he finally has it in the bag with the cherry one, he turns his attention back hesitantly to the street artist – who happens to be watching his hands and the bag excitedly. So Castiel lets him have it, and Gabriel promptly gives him the appropriate amount of money.

With that, and with questions lingering on Castiel's tongue, the Gabriel leaves with his white hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and his cherry and blueberry strudels merrily in tow.

Castiel sunk back behind the counter. He likes the coffeehouse. The familiar, serene atmosphere fills him with happiness. He has worked there since he graduated high school, and he's really good friends with his boss. That and, well, the coffeehouse has sort of become his life. His story, it's predominately within those walls, and Castiel intends to keep it that way.

The couple let out another boisterous set of laughs, this time lasting longer than the previous. Castiel absentmindedly glances over at the duo, then back at the door. He is truly snapped out of his reverie only when another customer has to shout in his ear for another refill.

_XXXXX_

Castiel later learns why Gabriel didn't say where he could find an example of his artwork; the third of the questions also describes the art perfectly. A questionably legal (he doubts he had permission to paint it, and the image itself isn't for the squeamish) mural is on his walk to work, and it was after curiosity hit him and further scrutinizing that Castiel learned that it's painted by none other than a "Gabriel". He quickly gathers that Gabriel is an advocate, and anti-war seems to be a subject he paints rather strongly for.


	2. La Seine

_**A/N: **__Okay, so I didn't lie! This chapter is longer than the last one (even if it is by a measly thirty-some words)! They will be getting steadily longer, though, as things progress._

_I forgot to mention in the first chapter that there is yet another song inspiring this story, but I can't reveal it yet. I promise, I will tell you, but right now the one will have to suffice. You'll understand later~!_

_Oh, hey! Another French song! So I know there's an English and a French version to this song, and I moreso applied this chapter to the French version. It seems to fit better._

_Please read and review~! I love constructive criticism! It'll also make the story better!_

_Is there anything else?_

_I don't think so!_

_Oh, wait! One more thing! _ **_Disclaimer: _**_I own nothing. I do not own Supernatural, the songs, the characters, anything. Also, there's a very cheesy reference; I don't own that, either. I just own my computer and my imagination!__  
_

_Now off to the story we go! Enjoy~!_

**_Chapter Two: La Seine_**

After that class, the teacher confronts the student who is still clutching his ball of yarn close to his chest. With wide, terrified eyes, the student replies with a barrage of questions. "What if I lose it like some of the others?" or "What if it becomes hopelessly tangled?" or "What if I really lose my story in real life?"

The teacher smiles comfortingly and sits the student across from his desk. He then takes his own seat across from him and holds his hand out. The student, curious and confused, merely stares at the teacher ahead of him, looking rather silly with his hand outstretched for no apparent reason.

"Give me the ball," the teacher requests with a gentle tone, and then the reason becomes blatantly obvious. And the teacher sud

denly doesn't look so silly. The mentioned ball, still clutched to his chest, remains squashed there as the student shakes his head.

"No," the student refuses and shakes his head rapidly.

The teacher sighs. This will be a challenge.

_XXXXX_

Castiel opens the shop that morning just as the sun cracks over the horizon. He enjoys mornings in the coffeehouse; the different hues and colors of dawn flood into the already welcoming store. When Castiel is inside, he inhales deeply, savoring the aromas of coffee, pastries, caramel, chocolate, and of caffeine and energy. He also notices with satisfaction that everything is exactly where he left it, although everything should be; he had closing shift the night before.

Gabriel's words are no longer lingering on his mind, although the image of his mural now haunts him. He doesn't exactly know why now, he's seen it every day since he started his job, but perhaps it's because he knows the talented artist and that he's taken the time to study that gruesome, but awe-inspiring, painting. Still, he represses the disturbingly brilliant art with other thoughts. Such as which of the sandwiches he will want to eat for lunch.

A tinkling of the door's bell behind him forces him to spin on his heels. Customers nearly never arrive so early for their morning coffee; he usually has a half hour to an hour to himself before he needs to prepare himself for the trickle and impending rush.

His first patron covers her eyes with midnight dark sunglasses despite the enduring morning haze, her just as dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders. Although he is lean, she doesn't appear delicate; "strong" would be the word Castiel would more readily choose.

As she regains her bearings she doesn't look directly at Castiel, or at least that he could tell; her entirety is facing his general direction, but she seems to be calculating his exact location. Castiel begins to say something, but he is immediately overpowered as her crystal clear voice rings through the coffeehouse.

"Is this any way to treat your first customer of the day?" she asks, her voice aimed directly at him now. It penetrates the barista with a chill, and he struggles to find his words. Finally he is able to speak.

"I am deeply sorry, miss," he apologizes and scrambles behind the counter. Castiel is already preparing the machines as he continues to talk. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"That's better," the woman comments, satisfied. She wanders to the counter slowly, almost as if she is uncertain where to take her next step. Each thump of her soft shoes against the floor is followed even faster by the next, as if she were more confident after each one. "I would like a donut," she requests as she touches the counter gingerly.

"Which type?" Castiel questions. He is already sliding the door behind the baked goods open, grasping a napkin and a paper bag.

"You have glazed?" she states, although the tail end of the sentence leads Castiel to believe it may have been a question. He nods, although she doesn't respond. Instead she stands there and waits.

Then it clicks.

"Yes, I apologize again. We do have glazed donuts," he says quickly and grabs one from the display. He stuffs it into the bag, closes the door. "Is there anything else you would like?"

She merely shakes her head and extracts a wallet from her back pocket. The woman opens it carefully, and pulls out a bill in much the same manner. "Is this enough?" She offers it to him.

Castiel blinks at the ten she is inquiring about, and he confirms her question. He punches the total into the waiting register, and then he hastily returns the change to her. As the money touches her palm, she smiles at him. He would guess it is a knowledgeable smile toying about her face.

"I'm your first blind customer, aren't I?" she queries and reaches tentatively for the bag. Castiel prods it toward her outstretched hand, but she somehow detects it and swats his hand away.

"Yes," Castiel admits and shifts nervously. Her grin grows wider.

"Well, I am honored," she confesses, moves the bag from her right hand to her left, and then offers the now-free hand. "My name is Pamela."

Castiel takes her hand in the ever so common gesture. "Castiel," he returns with an additional nod of acknowledgement, although he knows she can't see it. So it surprises him when she reciprocates that gesture as well.

"I know what you want to ask," she divines with incredible accuracy. The very question she's referencing is swimming around his head. He repossesses his hand and tugs at that ever present rag. Hey, there are donut remnants! But the perception and awareness she's been exhibiting astounds him, and he isn't sure whether she's pranking him or genuinely blind.

"Would you be willing to answer?" Castiel asks after a moment's hesitation. He is ashamed slightly with his audacity to ask, but she implied permission with her observation. He can feel his stomach fluttering about with nerves as he waited for her response, tugging at the rag more and more. She is picking her words wisely, he can tell, which puts him more on edge. She begins finally, though.

"It was winter, shortly after Christmas, actually," Pamela starts with a fond smile, although it seems as though she's holding back a… a laugh? Then she shrugs. "I was nine, and I really wanted a BB gun that year. All the kids on my block had them, and those things were what you had to have to be cool. My mother was against it, but my father was indifferent. I think he was secretly ecstatic; he was always a gun man. But he always shrugged at me and said, 'Of course you do.'"

Castiel's brows were furrowed together; he is wondering if this is the set up to some punch line or another. Pamela's wide smile points toward his hypothesis, although the reminiscent undertones calm Castiel. Maybe this is the honest truth; he can never tell when people are being serious or joking sometimes. It's a curse, he would say.

"Everyone was telling me I'd shoot my eye out and, low and behold, I did," Pamela concludes and lowers her sunglasses from her eyes. Her left eye is missing and, in lieu, there is a glassy, snowy ball. "My missing eye became infected, spread to the other, and then my world become dark." The other eye appears normal save a distant focus and its stillness. She pushes the dark shades back into place.

"I am sorry," Castiel repeats for the nth time that morning, and Pamela purses her lips.

"You don't need to apologize. Anyway, it wouldn't be nearly as ironic if I hadn't decided to be a rabbit that year for Halloween," she states with a loud chuckle. Castiel laughs, taking his cue from the blind woman, but he doesn't know what he's laughing about. It just seems darkly appropriate. "I'm okay with it, though. At first I was terrified, but then I learned that everything will be fine. Sure, I can't see what's ahead of me, but that doesn't mean the world isn't any less beautiful, any less worth experience, that I still won't be able to, in a different sense, see it. I'll just hear it better, feel it better, taste it better, smell it better."

She concludes her little tangent with a nonchalant shrug. The doubts that were in Castiel's mind earlier vaporized within milliseconds, and his ocean blue eyes are entranced, dancing in fantasies. "Tell me," he commences slowly, "where is your favorite place to be?"

Pamela's happy expression rests in her being, but she seems to be pondering the question. Her fingers tap on the countertop, a mindless habit that pushes her thoughts forward. "There's this garden two towns away that a friend takes me to," she reveals with a sure nod. "It's beautiful."

"Can you tell me about it?" Castiel requests. He likes this woman; she's easy to talk to, and she doesn't seem to mind his near social cluelessness.

"Curiosity killed the cat, you know," she teases with a small laugh, and he reels back. What was that supposed to mean? But she humors him anyway. "You can hear varieties of birds, insects, animals, children laughing and playing. The streets by it aren't busy, so the sounds of cars aren't overpowering. There's also a small creek running through it, so there's always the low hum of running –"

The jingling of the bells alerts the two of newcomers, and Pamela takes this as her cue to leave. She expresses her regret in intruding when he should be working. Castiel feels his heart drop in disappointment, but he's still smiling.

"I'll see you later, Castiel," she assures him with that still present grin. She closes her hand around the crumpled opening of the bag and waves at him with her free hand.

Castiel replies that they will meet again and, before he can ask the location of the garden, he is being engaged by the new customer. Unfortunately, he misses what the man says, so he is forced to ask him to repeat.

"Excuse me?"

The rest of the day goes quietly, and he decides on one of the delectable roast beef sandwiches for lunch. The day is calmer than usual, which allows Castiel to imagine the garden that Pamela only began to describe for him; he is strolling through it, indulging in his senses as he slowly explores every inch. He decides that, someday, he will find the garden, and he will walk through it with his eyes closed; he will experience it how Pamela does.


	3. Scarlet Windmill

_**A/N: **__Hey, guys! This is a super fast update! And look! It's so much longer, too! You know why? It's because we're starting to wade into plot stuff (not that what you've been reading so far isn't important). We'll see how much longer the chapters get?_

_Also, I'm hoping to crank out chapters within the next week before I can't update for pretty much the rest of the summer._

_So yeah. I implore you to read and review, and you will receive imaginary virtual kittens if you choose to do so._

_The song for this chapter is by the same group of people as the one for the story title. Although many of the performers aren't the same people. It's a weird group. After this chapter, though, there should be much more musical variety. I translated the title for this chapter._

_**Chapter Three: Scarlet Windmill**_

Castiel heard a story once.

In it there are three sisters. The identities of their parents are largely debated, but the role of these sisters remains as solid as stone. The first of the three spins thread; her long, nimble fingers work night after night preparing her infamous thread. With what thread she finishes, she passes it along to her sister. The second takes the thread, lays it out carefully. She then takes her measuring stick and ever so skillfully decides where the fresh string needs to be cut. When she is sure, she calls the third and final sister over. And she does so meticulously with a pair of trusted scissors; she is responsible for cutting the string and giving it purpose. This string? This thread? This precious material that these women work so diligently on creating?

It's life.

These three sisters are Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, the three fates of ancient Greece.

Clotho is responsible for spinning the thread of a person's life, Lachesis is responsible for deciding its length, and Atropos decides the rest.

That's a myth that has kept him up many a nights.

Did Atropos intend for him to be in the coffeehouse, or was that what he made for himself? And, if it is what he made for himself, what is he really supposed to be doing?

Those pull Gabriel's forgotten words back to him like a yoyo, but he can't imagine life outside of that earthy café.

_XXXXX_

It is midafternoon when Castiel begins his shift that day, which he would admit is much later than usual. His manager, albeit with threats upon threats, managed to convince him to not work that morning. Castiel insisted passionately that he wants to, although his higher up would hear none of it. So the employee gave in with much reluctance.

A jingling at the door turns his attention to a newly arrived customer. She is blonde, stunningly attractive middle aged woman, but her shoulders are angled down and she has dark rings under her eyes. Castiel surmises lack of sleep the night before, but he watches her and waits. She is reading the selection, and he notes that she isn't a regular. Maybe he will have a new face to memorize.

"Regular coffee, black," she finally says with resignation in her voice. She blinks slowly as Castiel begins extracting the drink from a machine. Curious as ever, he decides to see how much information he can get out of the woman.

"Long night or morning?" he finally asks, returning to the counter and handing her the drink. She gives him the money in exchange and gives him a tired, sad smile.

"You could say that," she replies vaguely, searching along the surface for something. She grabs a lid from the stack, but waits to put it on. Apparently that was it.

Castiel peers around the shop; they are surprisingly alone. So he presses further.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he suggests, hoping it isn't out of line. Still, she raises her gloomy, exhausted eyes to him, but there's something new. Castiel can't quite pinpoint what it is, so he bites his lower lip nervously and remains quiet.

She sighs. "I guess. Why not?" she says, and then she turns to scan the room. Castiel starts to point out that there is no one else there, but the woman ventures further to snag a chair. The barista presses his lips closed, watching and fliching as the legs of the chair scrape loudly against the floor. He makes a mental reminder to check the surface for any markings when he has the chance.

"I'm a police officer," she says as she positions the chair and settles into it. Her posture is mostly straight, but she curves toward the counter slightly. Whether it is something natural in her position, or if it's something to facilitate the conversation, Castiel is unsure. Yet she continues. "Ellen is my name, by the way. Yours is Castiel?"

She gestures to his nametag, which is crookedly pinned to his apron. He merely nods, but his eyes encourage her to continue.

"I wasn't always a police officer. I owned a restaurant. Had a husband and two kids," she explains, her visage is clouding in reminiscence as she speaks. Her voice is fond and thoughtful, and there are strong hints of longing.

"What happened?" Castiel croaks out. He is mildly shocked by the implications of her use of past tense.

"There was a fire at the restaurant. I was home sick that day, but my husband and kids were working there," she continues simply. Her voice was growing softer and cracking, so Castiel has to lean forward to hear what she's saying. "It was after they closed The Roadhouse for the day, so it was just the three of them. None of them made it out, and restaurant was beyond repair."

By now the woman's face his hardened, most likely a dam holding back a flood of emotion. Castiel isn't sure how to console her, but he vows to try nonetheless.

"I am really sorry, Ellen," he says reaching across the counter to place a reassuring hand on her forearm. She looks uncomfortable at the contact at first, but dismisses it quickly. After a few seconds, she seems to appreciate it. He pulls his hand back and begins fiddling with the rag nervously.

"It was five years ago today," she confesses after a moment of hesitation. She raises her stony yet glassy eyes to him. "An investigation showed that it was arson, but the culprit was never caught. There were a couple of suspects, but we never found out who truly did it."

"So you became part of the police?" Castiel nearly whispers. It seems appropriate given the circumstances; a loud response would seem insensitive, he thinks.

"So I became a part of the police," Ellen repeats with a nod and a bitter grin, this time it's a statement. "At first I wanted to catch whoever did it, but then my reason changed. I wanted to help prevent something like this from happening to other people, give answers to those who had to experience it, and help give people closure. It makes me happy to help people through things like this. I'll be damned if I don't miss those three, though."

Castiel nods in understanding. He parts from the conversation momentarily to fill another cup of the coffee, and then he gives it to the woman. "Here. It's on me," he states as she furrows her brows questioningly at him. She then smiles kindly, takes the cup appreciatively.

"Thank you, Castiel," Ellen says, although he knows it's for more than just the free coffee. She glances at her watch, gasps slightly, and then wraps her hands around both cups. One had likely gone cold, or lukewarm, or whatever it would be by now, long forgotten during the conversation. The other is fresh and piping hot.

"Anytime," Castiel replies, unsure of how to proceed. Then it hits him, and he adds. "Ellen!"

She stops in the door, miffing the second patron of the day who wishes to enter. "Yes, Castiel?"

He hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to phrase it. He settles on dumbly saying, "I mean it when I said 'anytime'."

Ellen smiles at him; it's not forced, not mocking, not obliged, not bitter. It's genuine. "Thank you," she says again.

Castiel hopes to see her again (as he does with so many of his confiding patrons); she reminds him of another customer from several months ago. He can't remember the customer's name for the life of him, but he remembers his appearance and his story vividly. It was an older gentleman, most likely in his fifties, who entered the store in much the same shape as Ellen.

_His aging chin is coated by a decent layer of stubble, black crescents rest under his weary eyes, and he has the look of a rural man. If anything, it's the plaid flannel shirt under the hunter's vest that gives it away. When he speaks, it's clearly Midwestern, and Castiel surmises that it's relatively north within that region, too. Whatever the case, he's not from around here._

_He orders his drink, his voice gruff and sharp, most likely due to some mental preoccupation. As usual, Castiel allows his curiosity to get the better of him, and he asks about the man's wellbeing. He is promptly scoffed at, called an idgit, paid, and abandoned at the counter._

_The man returns the next day, though; apparently he enjoyed his coffee and thought he would be helped by another employee. Castiel tries yet again even though he is positive he is breeching some social rule or another. The man merely glares under that same haggard gaze, calls him an idgit yet again, and leaves with his coffee in tow. He forgot to pay for it, but Castiel doesn't mind. He tells himself to put the appropriate amount in the register before his shift is over._

_The next and third day, the man finally caves albeit without Castiel's questioning. The one year anniversary of his wife's death just passed, and he's in the city visiting some of her family. He shares that his wife had been ill and gravely so; her time was running out quickly, and they had just finished getting her final affairs in order before she was rushed to the hospital one final time. She had collapsed, he explains, and was unresponsive. The doctors told him that there was nothing they could do, so the man had two choices. He could wait until his wife wakes up – which the odds were slim to none and, even if she did, she wouldn't have much time left nonetheless – or he could take her off life support._

_He chose the latter._

_He tells Castiel that although he doesn't regret his decision, he can't help but wonder if there's something different during her treatment that they could have done. Something that could have saved her, and he blames himself for not finding it. After her death, he tells him, he would research her illness, treatments, and stories until he was falling asleep at his computer. He curses himself for not being able to protect his wife, and he developed an insatiable thirst for knowledge of her illness._

_Castiel offers his condolences, but the man just shakes his head, tells him not to worry about him. He will be fine. So Castiel, albeit hesitantly, nods in response. He, like in Ellen's case, offers the man an ear for the future, and the man looks at him. This time there is a kindness, a fondness, in his eyes. He thanks him, then parts._

_Castiel can't help but wonder what happened to him._

His attention is abruptly grabbed by the newcomer. Castiel isn't sure when he spaced out, his thoughts still on that old man. It must have been within those few seconds of Ellen departing and the customer arriving at the countertop. He is the man from the couple a few days prior, Castiel notes, and he is disappointed to learn that his eyes are the same green as the plants hanging from the ceiling. On second thought, however, he realizes that those green eyes fit him wonderfully.

"… Hello?" the customer states, and Castiel quickly jumps back to attention. He apologizes profusely for his scatterbrained state, which earns him an amused chuckle. He also receives a, "No worries."

Hastily, a flustered Castiel rushes to save his end of the conversation, his dignity, and the possibility of a new regular (What? He likes them!). "What can I get for you?" he asks, ramming the syllables together into one long, jumbled mess of a word. He hears yet another small, entertained laugh.

"Firstly, can I get two vanilla lattes?" he requests, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. In reply, Castiel starts fiddling clumsily with the machines. These were easy, unlike some of the ridiculous orders that certain customers want.

"Also," he starts again, forcing Castiel to shift slightly so he could glance at his customer when he has the opportunity.

"Yes?" Castiel urges him. He watches the man expectantly and, as he does so, he lets his grip slip on the container holding the warming milk. It sends the cup crashing to the ground, the white liquid sprays everywhere. When Castiel finally understands what's happening enough to react, he leaps back, but slips on some splattered milk. He, thusly, feels the solid ground disappear from under his feet and then promptly materialize painfully on his back. The escaping wind from his lungs coerce an "oof" from his shock-parted lips. When he realizes his current predicament on the ground, he mutters something inaudible from his position there, the customer obviously startled.

"Dude! Dude, are you alright?" he all but panics over the counter. Castiel can see him contemplating whether he should jump over it to his aid or not, but the barista pulls himself up into a sitting position. Hopefully that'll be enough to show that he's fine while he catches his breath.

As he's doing so, he checks the damage: the metal cup is dented, although Castiel is positive he can remove the chink (although it won't be as pretty as it was before the tragic accident, but it'll be usable nonetheless); milk rained everywhere on the floor, even sprinkling some of the machines and cupboard doors; and Castiel is sure he feels one of those twinges in his ankle that go away five to ten minutes after the fact.

Once Castiel is sure he can semi-breathe properly again, he rises to his feet and smiles sheepishly at his customer. "Sorry about that," he apologizes before grabbing another cup and resteaming some milk. He can feel those green eyes on him (and he swears they're trying to suppress a roaring laugh), unsure how to save his end of their interaction. After a few moments, he is rescued from the impossible feat by that wonderful, lovely, magnificent customer.

"I would like to speak to your manager," he says, and Castiel can feel his stomach drop. He blanches, ready to begin his rapid apologies again, but his customer quickly backtracks. He apparently realized his mistake. "I would like to speak to your manager about allowing some friends and I play here. We're musicians."

The color begins returning to Castiel's face, and he pours the successfully steamed milk into the two waiting cups. He steps over the now sticky milk to hand them to the man. "He is not here now. He should be arriving within the next half hour, if you wish to wait for him. If not, you can leave your number, and I will be sure to relay your message," he says, although he is certain his voice is wobbly. His manager didn't need to know about his mess. Speaking of which…

He ducks behind the counter in search of a dirty rag from the day before. The other man furrows his brows slightly in thought at this barista's… peculiar behavior. But before he can lean over the countertop yet again to see what he's doing, Castiel pops back up with the rag on the floor; he is using his feet to wipe the floor as he smiles up at his customer. "It's your choice," he adds, the man's silence unnerving him slightly.

"I have work, so if I could leave my number," he decides, still perplexed. Castiel bobs his head in acknowledgement, and he fishes a fake-flower clad pen from the vase on the counter as well as a lonely receipt someone forgot from the night before. He slides the two over to the man, who quickly scribbles a name and a phone number. He returns the reused receipt and the florally pen back to the barista, thanks him.

Castiel is about to remind him that he still has yet to pay when the patron pulls out bill. "Keep the change," he says, takes the two cups, and leaves. The man watches the fern-eyed man as he pushes through the door and takes to the streets.

Castiel huffs to himself, frustrated with himself at that display. He doesn't want to be the incompetent barista, so he promises himself no more scenarios like this. The written on receipt is lying on the counter yet, so he pulls it closer to him and then stores it in the register with the money. That is, not before deciphering the man's name from the chicken scratch handwriting: Dean Winchester.

_**A/N: **__Me again! I apologize for the sadness and depressing state of this chapter, but I'm hoping the ending made up for it. We finally officially meet Dean! Yay! And apparently Castiel is a clutz when he's a nervous, flustered, anxious wreck!_

_Also, if people have requests for characters or songs, I would be more than happy to see if there's some way I could work them into the story._

_One more thing, I promise I'm not a creeper or anything (I'm stalking everyone), but I think it's incredibly fascinating to see that people from all over the world are reading this. So I'd just like to say hi to you all whether you're tens or hundreds or thousands of miles/kilometers away!_


	4. I've Been Working on the Railroad

_**A/N: **__So this chapter was hard to write, so I apologize for the quality of it. However, Castiel kind of sort of finally starts actually talking to Dean. Kind of sort of. But shhh! I haven't told you this yet!_

_I would love constructive criticism and feedback! I will give you virtual magic beans if you do (because they totally exist, people)!_

_For the lovely reviewers of the previous chapter: : / / farm2. static. flickr 1396 /1234995746_b843f7e872_o .jpg Just take all of the spaces out!_

_So here is chapter four! I've cranked it out, although it is shorter than the last one!  
_

_**Disclaimer: **__I own absolutely nothing!_

_**Chapter Four: I've Been Working on the Railroad**_

The teacher talks to the student, trying ever so hard to coax the ball from the student. Instead, he just unceasingly shakes his head and presses the ball against him even tighter. The teacher is getting more and more frustrated by the minute, his words becoming more and more forceful. The student is sure tears are rolling down his cheeks, but he doesn't care. It's his story, and he's going to protect it if it's the last thing he does!

The teacher's now demanding, now threatening, but that ball is squished smaller and smaller against the boy. He knows the teacher can't touch him, can't actually take action, and that he won't, but that doesn't alleviate his fear.

Then he's saved by a knock on the door.

_XXXXX_

The next few days are overflowing with mundane conversations revolving around the weather, around happenings in town, around anything worthy of half an ear. He is disappointed to not see Gabriel, Pamela, or Ellen. Dean stops by a few times, but it's solely to discuss his music with the manager. Balthazar seems more than pleased to welcome live music into the little joint; he claims that it'll "liven up the place". Castiel doesn't complain, though; he agrees for the most part.

So when the first day with the new music comes, Castiel feels anxiety and ecstasy claw madly at the pit of his stomach. He wishes desperately that this change will be for the better, and he bites his bottom lip harshly as those thoughts rush through his overworked brain. None of the musicians have arrived yet, although they will be within the next half hour.

"I'll have a large of whatever has the most caffeine," says a customer as he approaches the barista. Castiel notes that he is of Asian descent, and he appears near death from exhaustion. Those dark eyes settle on him as if he is some sort of savior, so Castiel grunts in acknowledgement and begins creating the energy-laced drink.

A thump sounds behind Castiel as he is extracting espresso from the machine in front of him. He knits his brows together and spins his head toward the source of the noise to find the kid with his head on the counter. Startled, he voices his concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks and turns away from the finished machine. The head tilts back and brown eyes glare up at his own blue ones, and then Castiel feels a tangent on the horizon.

"AP exams are coming," he explains, returning his face to the hard surface. His voice becomes muffled as he talks, although it isn't completely impossible to understand. "I've had about seven hours of sleep within the past week between homework, studying, cello practice, extracurriculars, college preparation, and everything else. Caffeine has been my saving grace."

Castiel's mouth forms a small "oh", and then he decides to do unimaginable: giving advice. He gulps slightly, starting. "Then sleep."

Those two words. Those two words snapped the student's head up from the counter with narrowed eyes, almost daring Castiel to repeat them again. But he resumes to elaborate, "You are not going to accomplish much in this state. You will do better with rest."

The customer snorts and shakes his head tiredly. "I can't do that. I'm on a tight schedule," he blinks, holding his eyes closed for a moment longer than necessary.

"Then you should schedule time," Castiel insists. He realizes he's holding the coffee hostage, but he doesn't care. He's hoping to coax the fatigued boy into rest.

"I don't have any time to schedule," the boy argues back. Curse his stubbornness. Curse his classes. Curse his overwhelmingly busy life. "I have dreams and goals I need to work toward."

Castiel sighs, presses fingers to his temple. "Then stay here for a little bit, I am sure you have a few minutes to spare. The chair there," he gestures to the mentioned, cushy piece of furniture, "is comfortable. Close your eyes, and I will wake you in fifteen minutes."

The student stares at Castiel for what feels like an eternity before giving a resigned sigh. "Fine," he huffs, snatches the cup from the barista's hand, slams enough change on the counter to cover the one and another, and stalks over to the chair. Castiel has no intention of rousing the poor student after that blip in time, maybe after hour. But definitely not after a measly fifteen minutes when he's so sleep deprived.

He smiles triumphantly and settles on wiping the bar down. That smirk doesn't go unnoticed by certain familiar faces who essentially strut into the coffeehouse. Castiel's eyes trail them amusedly, and he can see the student sending them a interested look. The tired customer then promptly closes his eyes, though, once he has his fill of the newcomers. Dean, who Castiel picks out easily from the mini crowd, makes a stop at the counter first.

"You have honey tea, right?" he questions, setting a small, black case on the counter and leaning against the structure.

"We do," Castiel replies with a sure nod, and he waits. He is sure Dean will order the steamy drink, but he waits for the request.

Low and behold, Castiel is not disappointed. The order comes without fail, and he gets to work on the foolproof drink. He's pleased with the fact that he shouldn't be able to pull the same stunt with this as he did with the milk. That is, unless he manages to be the same clumsy stuntsman he was a few days previous.

Castiel isn't sure what to say, although he is buzzing with excitement. He isn't sure why, but the smile initiated by the student morphed into something different à grâce de Dean. He spins back around, teabag in the steaming water in one hand, honey in the other. He plops them down on the counter and stares at the musician expectantly.

Dean, who appears uncomfortable with the silence, strikes up conversation. "So you work here," he observes dumbly, dumping a rather generous amount of honey into the waiting cup. His vibrant green eyes rise to meet Castiel's own blue pools.

"I do. You are a musician," Castiel confirms and reciprocates in much the same manner. He can see the man's shoulders relax; perhaps it's because he doesn't feel as though his evident statement now didn't seem so stupid?

"I am," Dean replies, then hands Castiel money for the drink. He takes a sip as the other makes change. "Anyway," he continues to say with a small smile dancing upon his face, "I hope you enjoy the show."

"I will," Castiel replies weakly as Dean departs. He can't help but feel happy that he didn't do anything regrettable. Aside from not being able to maintain the conversation, that is.

A chuckle erupts from the next customer, and it's yet another familiar face. Those hazel eyes staring back at him, that toothy grin, that mischievous ambiance. Castiel can't help but feel elated.

"Gabriel!" he nearly cheers happily. The street artist's grin grew even wider and toothier.

"Glad to know you recognize me," he teases, and he gesticulates to the two men Castiel was interacting with earlier. "Nice work with the child. He's zonked. As for the other one, I would get on that quickly."

Castiel is like a fish, opening his mouth to close it only to open it once more. Gabriel laughs loudly at his server's state, and then he continues speaking. "However, I see you haven't done much to get out of this dump." The barista is about to protest that the place wasn't a dump, but the artist continues jabbering over him. "I'll tell you what! I'll teach you how to paint! We'll see if painting is your thing!"

Castiel knits his brows together through Gabriel's incessant rambling. He doesn't know whether he's being serious or if he's joking, but the blue orbs reflect that.

"Seriously. I'm going to teach you to paint," the street artist said matter-of-factly; Castiel is hesitant. This is the second time he's met the man, and he's already pressing him into art lessons.

"Umm…"

"Don't worry about it! I have all of the materials!" Gabriel insists, unaware of Castiel's torn expression. Still, Castiel doesn't have the heart to tell him he'll have to think about it or no. "We'll need a location. My place is filled with… stuff! How about yours? Or this place? I'm sure that that'd be okay, as long as no one knows and we don't spill any paint. Okay, so your place may be the best. What d'ya say, kiddo?"

"I, uhh…" Castiel commences, uncertain. Gabriel eyes him hopefully, eagerly, like he's a new puppy he may be taking home. Castiel sighs and nods in submission, now desperately wanting his new teacher to not be a secret serial killer or rapist.

"Wonderful!" Gabriel chirps excitedly and claps his hands together. "I'll be back here right before closing with everything and then we can begin, okay? Okay! Now, I would like a white hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and two strudels, one cherry and one blueberry!"

Castiel nods and feels his insides twisting into a knot. He doesn't know exactly what he's getting into, but it scares him. When he begins mixing the ingredients, a melody washes over the coffeehouse. It's one at first, sweet and light, and Castiel guesses it's from a violin. Soon a second joins the first, and then a third. Soon, the café is filled with melodies, harmonies, and he finds himself frozen. Still he is, and he is suddenly hyperaware of his sense of hearing. The violin fades out and he hears a voice, soft at first and familiar, and then it grows louder. Louder, stronger it grows, forcing Castiel to sway closer to the coffee machines and back with the music, the rising notes, falling notes, crescendos, and decrescendos.

His eyelids fall, leaving him in darkness as the disturbingly magical notes caress him. He doesn't care that he can't see, and he doesn't care that he's forgotten about the order. Gabriel is sure to understand. His only desire, his only need, the only thing keeping him afloat his that voice, those instruments. His allowed those moments, too. Actually, he is graciously allowed the whole song to just wallow in its beauty. As he exhales deeply, it sadly finishes, and Castiel is dropped back into the reality of the café.

He squawks, realizing now that the order might be too hot, but it's fine (shockingly), so he returns apologetically to Gabriel. The patron, however, is beaming wildly at him, astoundingly perceptive. Castiel assumes it's because he's an artist; he is likely familiar with such happenings whether the cause be visual or auditory. Still, he can't shake the song that now lurks in his head, the song that's now sending shudders up his spine, the song that nearly brought him to his knees.

"There, there," Gabriel assures him absentmindedly and glances at the musicians. Castiel doesn't have the heart to do the same, maybe later, but he has a job he needs to do. Maybe when there are no patrons waiting to be served so he can become lost yet again in that spell. "Now how about those strudels?"

"Yeah… yeah, right," Castiel gasps, sliding the display door open with clumsy fingers. He fumbles them into the bag, folds the top close. "There," he adds as he unceremoniously sets it on the countertop. Gabriel had already placed the money there, so Castiel gives him the difference.

"Thank you!" Gabriel singsongs, taking the change, the bag, and the cup of diabetes happily. "I will see you at closing!"

And, with that, he nearly prances off.

And, with that, yet another song starts, allowing Castiel to drift off into that newly discovered, pleasant niche in his mind.

**_A/N: _**_Oh, hey! I've just noticed that this is the first chapter that the rag doesn't make a guest appearance in! Oh, no!_

_Also, I was very hesitant on making Dean a musician, but I discovered that it works best with the plot. I'll try my best not to make it too cliché, hehe!  
_


End file.
